Bill's representatives insisted I leave after six weeks and not a day longer, instead of the two months to which I am entitled.

One method of communicating this involved a brutish stranger hammering on the door late one night. I could fight it, according to my solicitor, but it's a battle too far. The solicitor has also informed Bill that I am entitled to remain, but I am worried he or his thugs will turf my belongings on to the pavement (a recurring nightmare throughout this situation).

Yet another potential flat lead fell through, after I had prepared to leave at last. The person vacating stayed on, but these things happen.

I meet up with a friend who is aware of my predicament, and she asks for an update. It's all too much and I begin to cry as I tell her about the thugs and my overwhelming sense of powerlessness and insecurity. I'd been about to book into a hostel.

Never having seen me in such a state, she's horrified, and insists I stay in her lounge. I go back to the flat, gather enough to keep me going for the immediate future, and camp out in her lounge. Like many of my friends she was aware of the facts but just didn't register how much it was affecting me: she assumed I would move and the problem would end.

I arrive at her place and realise that instantly a weight has been lifted from my shoulders. I remember what peacefulness feels like.

She is currently flat hunting in another city, and despite being in an excellent job with great pay is having trouble finding somewhere. She says she's being fussy, and I laugh. Fussy? She wants a safe, affordable flat with enough space for her partner and herself. That's not fussy.

I return after the best night's sleep I've had in months, and move all my belongings with the help of two friends.The mild-mannered Polish van man asks why I am leaving. I explain, and in broken English he replies: "UK landlords bad." Not always, I sigh.

So Bill has got his wish. In fact I am out of the flat even earlier than he demanded.

I didn't leave a forwarding address as I was worried he would send his thugs round, and I forgot to have my post redirected so it is possible he or his henchmen have been reading my letters. I was too scared to even walk by the flat.

In my panic I also forgot to read the meter, and will have a massive electricity bill to settle in instalments – even more debt. I am still sorting out benefits swallowed by bank charges and payments gone awol when switching between work and claiming. In this world of short-term employment this is perfectly normal, and an obstacle to low-income renting and general survival.

As for this column, I've found your responses astonishing both for their compassion and some searing complacency. The most amazing one came from the person who was more outraged that I might be wearing pyjamas at 8.30am than the fact a man had barged into my home and threatened me.

Some of you were sure there was a clear answer: that this would never happen to them and that I should be punished, despite Bill's threats.

To clarify: at first, I earned enough to afford the rent. The flat was cheap, but I slowly lost work through the year, and after graduating housing benefit reforms placed the cost outside my reach. I was in full-time education, which I firmly believe is a right not a privilege. I ended up owing rent that I will pay once I work out how much is outstanding, but I admit I'm in no rush.

More than anything else in the world I want to own a home so I can avoid landlords like Bill forever, but can't imagine I ever will.

New private landlords struggle with their responsibilities. Training should be essential, as the law should protect people like me, but many tenants are too scared to go to court. And when landlords respond by giving notice, what's the point in fighting? Like myself, people move on instead.